


Two Victories

by HourofWakening



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: M/M, dumac is his own m rating, it's another neremac story!, rated m for dumac
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23243035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HourofWakening/pseuds/HourofWakening
Summary: A night of love with you -a big baroque battleand two victories.(Anna Swir, "Second Madrigal"; trans. Czesław Miłosz and Leonard Nathan)
Relationships: Dumac/Indoril Nerevar
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	1. Tilling

On a cool rainy day in Mournhold, in the first bloom of spring, Nerevar, hortator of the Chimer people, sat at his desk in the palace, cursing as his pen leaked drops of black ink all over the page of the letter he had been painstakingly writing. He threw down the pen in disgust and let his head rest on the desk, cheek pressed to the cool mahogany. That was his fifth attempt at copying out the letter, a half-page missive to the Dwemer king, Dumac; the first four he had ruined with spelling mistakes. It shamed Nerevar to stumble over writing in a language he had known from childhood, but he had not learned to write Aldmeris – or ‘Velothi, to the Ashlanders – until becoming hortator, and his colloquial vocabulary had required some work to bring it to the standard required of speeches and official letters. The language he knew was one of a mother’s songs and gentle rebukes, of telling stories around the firepit while weaving mats out of thick flax fibres, not of war and diplomacy and court politics. But he had never shied away from a challenge, not even when it wounded his pride, and so he had thrown himself into the task with the same determination with which he approached everything in life.

Nerevar had just picked up his pen and a fresh sheet of paper when, with a knock at the study door, a guard peered in to announce the arrival of the Queen of Mournhold, who swept past him at once in a blur of blue silk, red hair, and fury.

“Nerevar!” cried Indoril Almalexia, stalking to a halt in front of the desk. He began to rise to his feet, but she stopped him with an imperious wave of her hand. She held her body as taut as a bow about to fire. “Do you really care so little for your people?”

“Fuck.” He sighed and rubbed one hand across his forehead. “Ayem –”

“Yes, fuck! Are you really going to give the Chimer something to hope for and then risk taking it all away by getting yourself killed in a Dwemer trap?”

Just that morning, he had finalised his plans to travel to the Dwemer city of Rjakanzel to meet with Dumac and sign the treaty formalising the alliance between their peoples. Sharing as they did a homeland, the Chimer and the Dwemer had a long and cyclical history of enmity, isolation, and uneasy rapprochement. Until now, however, no attempt had been made to forge an alliance between them; the Chimer had been too fractured, the Dwemer too insular, and both too proud. The Nordic conquest of Resdayn had complicated matters further, as varying clans and Great Houses had taken disparate stances on their relations with Skyrim. Now, the bitter Nordic war of succession was tearing holes in that once-mighty empire, and a sense of national consciousness and political will had burgeoned among them, so that even the most suspicious and parochial on both sides could see that this was their best opportunity to forge independence.

Since Nerevar had been named hortator, a host of Chimer diplomats had spent months working with the Dwemer on the terms of a politico-military alliance. The process had been smoother than Almalexia might have feared, with the spectre of a resurgent north nipping at their heels, but this particular scheme – to meet with the Dwemer king in one of his own cities – was so ludicrous that she half-suspected he had a death wish.

“I don’t think it’s a trap,” he said, trying hard to keep his voice steady as he began once again to write out the letter. 

“Oh, you don’t think – you don’t think it’s trap?” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “He doesn’t _think_ it’s a trap! We’re all saved!”

It wasn’t so long ago that their positions had been reversed – Almalexia sitting at her desk, which was much grander than his, to be fair, while Nerevar stood before her, a mercenary, rough and weary form a life eked out by his sword, requesting to join the ranks of House Indoril as a soldier. He had been pale and unsteady on his feet, still recovering from a near-mortal injury, and she had almost turned him away, but the fierce determination in his eyes had made her reconsider. Perhaps it would be better to have him under her thumb, she’d thought – a funny thing, in hindsight. He was hortator now, but she was still queen of Mournhold, and, in her city, she would make sure he never forgot it.

“Do you think I’m wrong? Do you think this isn’t an incredibly risky – _foolish_ – plan?” Here she paused for dramatic effect. “Just tell me you think I’m wrong and this will be the end of it. Look at me!”

Nerevar pushed the paper away and stood up, resting his palms flat on the desk. They stared at one another long and hard, both thankful for the physical barrier between them.

“Tell me I’m wrong, so I know for sure that you’re stupider than I thought.”

“You’re not… wrong,” said the hortator, watching her face carefully. “I can’t pretend it’s not risky. But we have no choice.”

“We do! There’s always a choice! We must wait, continue steady negotiations, and convince them to meet us in a more neutral area.”

But Nerevar only shook his head. Weeks of pushing on that very issue had earned them only the concession that the two delegations would meet first at a field in the Ascadian Isles region, on the way to Rjakanzel, before making their way to the underground city.

“You know we don’t have the time. Everything has been agreed already; we just have to sign the treaty. You _know_ the Dwemer hate to leave their cities. The Field of Good Hope is as neutral as we’re going to get.”

“But Rjakanzel…”

“It’s only a minor city; Sil assures me that it’s far less fortified than the capital. The moment something goes wrong, we leave.” She was still unimpressed. “I know it’s a big concession to meet them on their own territory, but we don’t have _time_ , Almalexia. If the jarls choose a new high king…”

It was the mention of the Nords that made her pause; they fell silent, each imagining the might with which a new and unified Nordic regime could come down on its restive province. They, the Chimer and the Dwemer, had already allowed the war of succession to stretch on for years without taking full advantage of the division and instability to the north. Almalexia had to admit that they didn’t have as much time as she would have liked. She swallowed hard, forcing down her anger.

“If you walk into Dwemer hands and get yourself killed, hortator,” – spitting his title like a curse – “then I swear on Boethiah’s sword, I will…” She let her voice trail off, allowing him to imagine the horrors she might bring down upon him from beyond the grave.

“I don’t doubt it.” Almalexia turned to leave, still frowning, but he called out to her. “Wait, one last thing,” he said, dipping his pen into the bottle of ink. “Come with me.”

His bold request almost threatened to reignite the argument, but Almalexia surprised herself by acquiescing. She was powerful enough of a mage, she reasoned, that his safety – the safety of the Chimer _cause_ – would be far better protected with her there as well as Sotha Sil. Nevertheless, she made sure he knew that her presence on the trip to Rjakanzel did not mean she condoned the plan, only that she couldn’t trust him to not make a mess of it without her, and she pretended not to see his smile as she swept from the study.

A week later, the Chimer party – Nerevar, Sotha Sil, Almalexia, a representative from each Great House, the most learned Chimer experts in Dwemer politics and diplomacy, and a dozen highly trained Indoril battlemages – made the journey from Mournhold to the Field of Good Hope, where the Dwemer were waiting to meet them. Their expert portal mage took them as far as Telasero, where they collected guar for the long ride, a day and a half, to the tent city that had sprung up among the verdant hills of the Ascadian Isles. Spring in Vvardenfell was hot and humid, making them sweat beneath their robes and armour, and the guar stomped angrily whenever a particularly vicious insect bite penetrated their thick hides. Nerevar rode flanked by Sotha Sil and Almalexia, none of them speaking, but rather deep in their separate worries, and he felt Vivec’s absence keenly. They were so used to travelling together that Nerevar could picture clearly the way Vivec would slouch in his saddle and belt out raucous drinking songs as they traversed the swamps and fields, wanting only somewhere to bathe and sleep at the end of the day. But Vivec had refused to come to the meeting; _it’s not for the likes of me to sit down with a king_ , he’d said with a sneer, barely looking up from his task of weaving a leather sword-buckle.

Nerevar hadn’t bothered to point out that Vivec sat down with Almalexia, a queen, most days. Truthfully, he understood Vivec’s trepidation all too well, and it only made him wish even more that he had his oldest friend by his side now. This meeting was his first great test as hortator and, to certain Chimer nobility, he was still just a sword-for-hire, even if the heads of the Great Houses had seen fit to give him a prestigious title. House Indoril had granted him their name, but it was more for their benefit than his; they relished in the neat reminder to the other Great Houses that the hortator was one of theirs. Elevating a commoner – one with a questionable mercenary past, no less – to such heights was, in their eyes, a necessary evil in the interest of freeing the Chimer from the Nord occupation. Without Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec at his side, Nerevar wasn’t sure he would be able to stomach it. Yet Vivec seemed to see only the new title, the gleaming Indoril regalia, and the fine chambers he’d been allocated in the Mournhold palace, each a betrayal more bitter than the last. If Nerevar feared that the Dwemer king would treat him like a subordinate, a common and uncultured soldier, then Vivec was afraid to see him greet Nerevar as an equal – that, Nerevar knew, was why he had not come.

The Dwemer scouts had spotted the Chimer delegation winding through the soft hills to the Field, and the Dwemer awaited their arrival at the entrance of the camp, between a row of fluttering banners bearing the crests of the Federation of the Clans of Dwemereth and each of the Chimer Great Houses. The air was thick with tension as the Chimer dismounted their guar and approached the camp, boots sinking into the muddy ground and weapons at the ready. It had been raining. Nerevar rested one hand on the hilt of his longsword as he scanned the rows of tall impassive Dwemer in their brass armour and helms, trying to discern which was their king. Though they had exchanged several letters, brief diplomatic pleasantries, over the previous months, Nerevar had little idea of Dumac’s character or, indeed, what he looked like. _Exceedingly proud_ , said one of his diplomats on her return from Dwemereth, _but not disdainful_. _Tall_ , said Sotha Sil, helpfully.

Yet, when the formation of Dwemer parted to allow a mer in a deep crimson robe to step forth, his hands spread wide in welcome, Nerevar recognised Dumac at once. The Chimer ambassador to Dwemereth had written, in a recent letter: _He is a most natural diplomat, with a tongue as gilded as the crown on his brow._ Truthfully, he was gold all over, from the tone of his skin to the embroidery on his robe and the sceptre in his left hand. As Nerevar watched, swallowing hard, the Dwemer soldiers surrounding the king lowered their spears and bowed their heads in unison; he removed his hand from the hilt of his sword. The heralds began the formal introductions, their raised voices carrying out over the fields, making birds stir in their trees. The king and the hortator stepped forward to meet one another, there in the middle of the Field, and both sides held their breath as they waited anxiously to see whether strict social etiquette would be upheld.

They were all aware of the advice given to Nerevar by his experts on Dwemer politics and culture, Sotha Sil among them, regarding the often-rigid social conventions of the Dwemer; given their disparity in rank, Nerevar, the general, would be expected to kneel before the king by way of greeting. Despite their great reluctance to suggest that he _should_ make such a supplicatory gesture, which would surely bring shame upon the Chimer present, his advisors had stressed that his failure to do so would cause the Dwemer great offence, so Nerevar found himself in the impossible position of standing in a muddy field facing Dumac, still unsure of how to proceed.

Sweat broke out on Nerevar’s brow. There were certainly those among the Chimer nobles present who would be glad to see him fall at this first hurdle. Worst of all was the suspicion, creeping in with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that having a representative such as himself might actually be to the detriment of the Chimer, for how could they stand on equal footing with the Dwemer when their leader was forced to kneel in the dirt? And yet, he could see no other way, and he felt pained by the dozens of pairs of eyes boring into him, waiting for him to move; Dumac, too, was waiting, with his golden disc-shaped crown gleaming like a miniature sun, and his glittering black eyes fixed on him. Nerevar was determined to hold his gaze. He gritted his teeth and began, heart pounding, to bend one knee.

Then, quick as a flash, Dumac reached out to grasp his gauntleted arm and hold him still, beautiful impassive face breaking into a small smile. He kept hold of Nerevar as he straightened himself once again, to a general sigh of relief from the Chimer and shocked murmuring from the Dwemer. 

“Come, qazarak,” he said in Aldmeris, his voice soft and measured. “We are equals now.”

Nerevar squared his shoulders – as proud as ever, thought Sil; the day was saved – and, still gripping one another by the forearms, the two leaders simply bowed their heads, a solution so elegantly diplomatic that even Almalexia was pleased.

Much of the tension in the air dissipated, like rain into soil, and the two delegations retired to spend the few hours left of the afternoon gathered in rather amiable discussion around the tables in the centre of the camp. With the content of the treaty having been agreed upon already, in the months leading up to the meeting, there was little to do but read through the text and suggest amendments or annotations, clarify whatever might had been lost in the translation to Aldmeris, and soothe each other’s anxieties. With so much of the alliance resting on the ability of the to leaders to get along, every diplomat watched Nerevar and Dumac carefully. They sat across from one another at the central table, with papers and maps written in several languages strewn between them, talking with far greater ease and warmth than anyone present would have expected. The worst case scenario, for those Chimer who did not _wish_ Nerevar the worst, had been the prospect that the haughty Dwemer king would treat Nerevar with a lack of respect – hardly an irrational fear, given the way many of the nobles of his own House treated him – but Dumac addressed him with easy grace, listened to him intently, and spoke his mind, or at least gave the impression of doing so.

Given his general apathy toward nobility – which had not abated since his elevation in rank, whatever Vivec thought – Nerevar had been prepared to find nothing to admire in Dumac. Yet there were moments that afternoon and evening, as the formal talks dissolved into more relaxed socialising over dinner and a selection of Dwemer and Chimer alcoholic drinks, when he almost forgot the occasion of their meeting and found himself simply enjoying the give and take of the conversation, particularly when the royal mask slipped a little and the mer beneath it began to come into focus.

The Dwemer king was older than Nerevar, but still young for a mer – well under a hundred years old. Like most of his compatriots, he had deep golden skin and thick dark hair, which was worked into dozens of shoulder-length braids. He was, in Nerevar’s opinion, exceedingly handsome, in a sharp, even haughty, way, with a strong nose, intense hooded eyes, and fine cheekbones ornamented with swirling lines of blue paint. Sotha Sil had explained that these were Dwemer protective symbols for good fortune and mental acuity, not unlike Chimeri magical runes.

Dumac spoke softly, in perfect Aldmeris, and the rings on his fingers flashed with every move of his fine hands. Cool yet ardent, he had a habit of staring right at Nerevar as he spoke, waiting calmly for him to finish his thought, and being the sole object of that deep gaze made Nerevar begin to feel light-headed, so he drank heartily from the jug of sujamma on the table between them, and then felt lighter-headed still. It was in this dazed state that he let slip to Dumac that he was receiving Dwemeris lessons from Sil, the foremost Dwemer scholar among the Chimer, which delighted the king. Leaning closer, so that Nerevar’s senses were flooded with a delicate combination of jasmine and sandalwood, Dumac confessed that he had been hoping to persuade Nerevar to deliver a line or two of his speech, at the treaty signing ceremony in Rjakanzel, in Dwemeris.

“It would be such a small gesture, but one that would surely endear you to all the Dwemer,” he pointed out.

“I’m afraid my translation might not be up to the task,” said Nerevar, feeling a twinge of genuine panic.

“Not to worry, Lord Hortator!” Dumac’s eyes were twinkling; if he were anyone but a king, Nerevar might have described him as looking playful. “I will help you – that is, if Sotha Sil won’t mind me taking over his duties.”

Sil sat across from them at the table but had been quiet for some time, by turns listening to their conversation and perusing the papers before him, or exchanging glances with Almalexia, who sat nearby with Dumac’s Chief Tonal Architect, Kagrenac.

“By all means,” he said, carefully maintaining his expression of polite disinterest. “I am sure there could be no better tutor of the Dwemer language.”

“Then you must come to my study, in Rjakanzel, and we will work on a translation together,” said Dumac, smiling graciously. Neither he nor Sil missed the flush of colour in Nerevar’s cheeks.

Some time later in the evening, Sil’s attention was piqued once again when the two of them called for a fresh jug of sujamma to drink a toast, just between themselves, to their new alliance and friendship. 

“So, here we are, brothers-in-arms, in the Field of Good Hope.” The king poured sujamma into both of their cups. “May the heavens grant us a fruitful harvest.”

“Indeed, the sowing has gone smoothly,” replied Nerevar, with a barely discernible twitch at one corner of his mouth.

“Ah, qazarak,” said Dumac, “we have only just completed the tilling. First comes the ploughing, then the sowing, and _then_ the harvest.”

“I think I know more of ploughing than you – _I_ was the farmer.”

“Farmer?” Dumac leaned closer; the light of the lantern above their heads caught on one gold pendant earring, making it glitter. “I thought you were a spearman.”

“That came after the ploughing.”

Nerevar kept his expression so perfectly cool that Dumac burst out laughing and did not recover himself for several minutes, by which time Nerevar had drained his cup and was smiling as he ran the tip of one finger around the rim.

“Forgive me, but your words reminded me of a famous Dwemer poem about – oh, perhaps I should just show it to you,” said Dumac at last, shaking his head. “I thought to give you some Dwemer texts to take back with you to Mournhold, to practise your translation. I’m sure I can select something more interesting than what Sotha Sil has provided for you.”

Sil, to his credit, gave no acknowledgement that he had heard the comment, and continued with resolute calm to look out over the camp.

“He _is_ very fond of grammar,” said Nerevar drily. “I would be grateful.”

“Forget grammar; what is important in language is the beauty of the _sound_ ,” declared the king. “Dwemer language is the most beautiful to the ear – you will see. Now, allow me to…”

Intending to refill Nerevar’s cup, Dumac leaned forward a little, reaching for the jug, and his brocade sleeve brushed the hortator’s arm, bare now that he had removed his gauntlets and gloves, and they were so close that Dumac could feel it in his own body when he shivered all over at the touch. They froze, staring right at one another, pounding hearts and racing thoughts so loud that even Sil could discern them.

Clenching his jaw, Sil glanced over his shoulder at Almalexia. She was looking back at him, eyebrows raised.

That night, as a security precaution, Nerevar and Sotha Sil shared a tent in the camp at the Field of Good Hope; except for Vivec, there was no one he trusted more with his safety. Once they had prepared for bed, Nerevar watched with amusement as Sil paced back and forth about the tent, hands folded behind his back, as he often did when thinking over something particularly vexing. Knowing that there was no point in questioning him, and that he would speak when ready, Nerevar set about assembling his portable shrine to Azura for an evening prayer. The hand-carved wooden figurine of the Daedric prince had belonged to his mother and was wearing smooth with age, from many years of reverent touch, her features blurring. He had just set up the copper offering bowl and poured a small vial of water into it when Sil paused and, tossing his long white hair over his shoulder, began to speak.

“What is your opinion of Dumac?”

“Dumac?” Nerevar blinked in surprise. “He is… not what I expected.”

“He rarely is.”

When Sil did not elaborate, Nerevar took a pouch of void salts from his satchel and sprinkled a pinch over the water.

“I trust that you will keep in mind the gravity – the delicacy – of this situation,” he added, after several minutes.

“I think I’m quite capable of that, Sil,” retorted Nerevar, voice coming out sharper than he had intended. Sil did have a tendency to make him feel foolish, like a scolded child, even when he wasn’t looming sternly over him as he knelt on the floor of a tent, struggling to light a votive candle. 

“I am simply suggesting that you exercise caution.”

“For Azura’s sake, Sil, speak plainly! What are you –”

“Nerevar,” he began with a sigh, looking hard at the tense muscles of the hortator’s throat and the heavy line between his brows, “I don’t think I have to tell you that fraternising with our ally’s leader would be incredibly ill-advised at this point.”

“Fraternising?” Nerevar choked back a laugh, his annoyance at Sil’s opacity threatening to turn into hysteria. Sil merely raised his eyebrows.

“I have seen how persuasive Dumac can be. Tell me you won’t let yourself be seduced, Nerevar.”

The hortator shook his head in disbelief and murmured something under his breath – Sil couldn’t be sure, but it sounded quite like, _merciful fucking Azura_ – and settled himself into a cross-legged position in front of the shrine. He rested his palms flat on his thighs, fighting hard not to clench them into fists. 

“Forgive me, Sil, but I doubt he’ll even try. It _is_ incredibly ill-advised.”

Sil opened his mouth to reply, but Nerevar had already closed his eyes in prayer, as clear a sign as any that the conversation was over. Rolling his eyes, he left the hortator to his commune and retired to his bed on the other side of the tent. There was nothing for him to do but watch, and wait, as he always did.

The Dwemer and Chimer left for Rjakanzel together in the early afternoon, but not before the Chimer took their new allies on an alit hunt in the rich grasslands surrounding the Field. For the Dwemer, the meat of creatures from above ground was an expensive delicacy, and they were eager to take some alit back to Rjakanzel for the banquet lunch at the palace the next day. They rode out on guar-back in the morning, with half a dozen nix-hounds at their heels and hunting bows slung over their backs and, though they did catch several of the beasts, the real value of the hunt for Dumac was seeing Nerevar laugh with unrestrained joy as he urged his guar into a gallop, hair streaming out behind him in the wind.

After returning from the hunt, they packed up the camp and began the journey to Rjakanzel. Portal magic would not work in Dwemer settlements without making significant adjustments to their tonal architecture, so the two delegations travelled via a horrible invention the Dwemer called a ‘pneumatic underground carriage’ – a great brass capsule which hurtled from the small outpost nearest the Field to Rjakanzel in a matter of hours. Sil, who had spent time with the Dwemer before and was familiar with this means of transport, sympathised with the unsuspecting Chimer, Nerevar among them, who spent the journey green and sickly, clinging white-knuckled to their seats. Before leaving Mournhold, he had taken the time to brew a selection of anti-emetic potions for this purpose; Nerevar drank his like a man dying of thirst. Their only other consolation was that, as the carriages could seat just a dozen people each, the Dwemer were not present to see the Chimer in such a shameful state. When they arrived at the station in Rjakanzel and stumbled out of the carriage, legs trembling, Dumac had the good grace to avert his head to shield them from his smile.

It was late evening, so they all retired to their quarters in the Rjakanzel palace, with the promise of a light supper in their rooms and a tour of the city the next day. Rjakanzel was an outer city, not the capital or where the royal court spent most of its time, but what the palace lacked in architectural and decorative grandeur it made up for in comfort. The walls were panelled with wood, rather than polished marble, and hung with tapestries depicting Dwemer at a variety of scholarly pursuits and crafts, from mathematics to spinning chaurus-silk. Knowing that Chimer were often disconcerted by the quality of light in their underground cities, Dumac had ordered the rooms set aside for his guests to be flooded with lanterns and candles, to make them feel at home. In his own chambers, he called for a bath and then dismissed his attendants to look over the pile of papers on his desk in peace. He had been away from his study for just two days, yet the stack of petitions, correspondence, reports, and intelligence – carefully gathered and organised by his faithful secretary, Zaychak – would take hours to comb through.

At the top of the pile, catching his attention immediately, was a small envelope containing a note that had been sprayed with an overly generous amount of geranium perfume. It was from his most recent lover, a young noble whose ambitious clan had likely put him in the king’s way just for this purpose, imploring Dumac to see him on his return to the city. The promise he had made just several days earlier no longer sparked any interest. He sighed, turning the note over in his hands, and then held it to the candle flickering on his desk, allowing it to catch fire and shrivel into ash. Although it singed his fingertips, he made no sound, no flinch. He would arrange for the man to be given a minor position in the civil service; his clan would be pleased, and the end of the affair would be no great loss to either of them. This was the usual trajectory of things.

Dumac spent the next half hour working through the stack of official paperwork, then retired to the bathroom, which was a tiled chamber with an enormous marble tub in the centre and an ornately carved cabinet full of scented oils, bath salts, soft cotton cloths, and other such bathing necessities. Although he made regular appearances at the public baths, both in the palace and in the city proper, on most nights he preferred to bathe in his own rooms. He had even had Kagrenac design a retractable table to fold out over the tub, for those rare occasions when he felt like signing papers or writing letters there. Usually, however, it was his place to lie back and think, and that night there was much to turn over in his mind.

He lit candles and incense around the bathroom and poured a cup of oil – marshmerrow blended with wickwheat, for a relaxing and restorative concoction – into the water. After loosening his hair from its braids and giving it a quick comb with his fingers, he tied it back, and ran a cloth over his face to remove the symbols painted on his cheekbones. His earrings, bracelets, and rings he dropped into a ceramic bowl, enjoying the sparkling clink of the gold hitting porcelain. Finally, once he had set his clothes aside in a basket, Dumac stepped into the bath, breathed in sharply at the sudden heat of the water, and sank down to his shoulders.

With the water lapping about his chest, Dumac closed his eyes and turned his mind to the Field of Good Hope. The first meeting with the Chimer had gone well, better than he had expected. The diplomats of the Dwemer clans had managed to hold their peace, which was gratifying, given that it had taken Dumac months of meetings and debates to get them to agree to his plans for the alliance, and the representatives of the famously divided Chimer Great Houses seemed on an equally tight leash, whatever might be brewing in the background. Unlike some Dwemer, Dumac quite enjoyed the Chimer; he found their uptight and serious outward demeanour amusing, especially late in the evening when a bottle or two of sujamma brought the renowned Chimer spirit to the fore.

Nerevar, in particular, he liked. Dumac had not anticipated the spark of interest – neither in himself nor in the eyes of the hortator – but it was there, undeniably so; he had tested the theory several times already, in the evenings at the Field of Good Hope, by sitting a fraction too close, and pretending not to hear, so that Nerevar had to lean even closer, and he had seen – felt – the shiver that rippled through Nerevar’s whole body when the fabric of his sleeve, that heavy silk brocade embroidered all over with mushrooms and spiders, had brushed the bare skin of Nerevar’s forearm. It was almost too much.

Dumac lay back in the bath, letting his hair fan out and his arms float to the surface, fingers drawing lazy circles in the water at his sides. He tried to imagine what his advisors might say if they knew he was contemplating an affair with the Chimer hortator – how the crease between Kagrenac’s brows might deepen, and her nose twitch in displeasure – and laughed out loud. His laughter shattered on the tiled walls of the bathroom, harsh in its defiance. It was a risk, certainly, but one that thrilled and intrigued him. Dumac had barely had time for anything pleasurable over the previous months, as negotiations with the Chimer had ebbed and flowed, and the Dwemer Electors had argued amongst themselves; now, however, he felt himself unspooling. With the alliance treaty on the verge of being signed, he sensed that the hardest part, politically, was over and, as they edged closer to war, the atmosphere was growing febrile, unfettered. The perverse logic of the moment, that precipice, was such that, at a time when he should perhaps have been at his most cautious, and resisted his impulse, he felt least inclined to do so.

Thus, instead of summoning his courtier, the writer of the perfumed note, Dumac closed his eyes and thought of Nerevar. Nerevar, bold, young, and hot-headed, staring him down at that first meeting at the Field, with his boots sinking into the mud. The hortator, whose heavy armour was in the Indoril style but who wore an Ashlander scarf about his neck, and who tilted his chin like a dog that has been kicked dozens of times but won’t ever cower. He had deduced, as soon as he stood face to face with him, looking into those fierce eyes, that allegiance – that supplication – from Nerevar could not be demanded; it must be given willingly. And would it? Dumac could still hear the collective gasp of his entourage as he took Nerevar’s arm and made sure he stayed standing, putting just enough of a dent in his pride that Nerevar would neither forget it nor hate him for it. He thought of the way his stomach had surged into his throat when Nerevar grasped his wrist in return. He thought of how Nerevar had leaned in close to speak to him under the soft light of the vellum lanterns, glowing gold all over, and the way the muscles of his forearm had flexed, during the alit hunt that morning, when he pulled taut the string of his hunting bow.

He thought of his hair, white-blond and shaggy, and whether it would be coarse or silky to the touch; whether, if Nerevar really did kneel before him, he would let Dumac gather it in his hands. Dumac pressed the back of one hand to his mouth to stifle a sharp sigh of longing. Where, he wondered, might he touch Nerevar to make him sigh like that? Where might he kiss him? Would Nerevar let Dumac coax the purest notes from him like a finely tuned string? Those flashing gold eyes, widening as Dumac’s sleeve brushed his arm – the strength in his hands – _yes, of course_ – and now he gasped, biting down on his own hand, thighs shaking; water surged over the edge of the bathtub and splashed onto the stone floor – _yes, of course he would_.


	2. Sowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night of love  
> had ambitions.
> 
> (Anna Swir, "The First Madrigal"; trans. Czesław Miłosz and Leonard Nathan)
> 
> Thank you so much to Lena (@i-am-sharmat on tumblr) for editing this for me; you're the best!

In the dream, Nerevar was a child and ran bare-footed through the tall grasses of another Vvardenfell field, with the hot sun beating down on his back and the sound of the farm workers singing as they harvested vegetables cresting with the scream of cicadas. His dream-self could run with unnatural speed; he could clear the lake between the fields and his mother’s house in a single leap… his excitement rose as he neared the mud hut, where bone-carved wind chimes stirred from the eaves, but the door he opened led not to that childhood hearth but into a cavernous entrance hall of white marble, and no longer a child he held a spectacular curved greatsword in his hands; still he ran, up flights of stairs that went up and up – all empty; everyone was waiting for him – and he had a speech to give, he remembered that now, but he hadn’t had time to write it; he’d been searching all day for his mother… Panic set in and he tried to gather the words in his head, but then the stairs fell away and he was running onto a vast balcony, where a crowd of people waited — their faces shifted and blurred together whenever he tried to focus on them — and a mer wearing a grotesque mask, the death mask of something monstrous, seized him by the shoulders.

“Hortator! What do you mean by this?”

Nerevar realised with a shock that he had forgotten to change; he was still in the dirty peasant’s tunic of his boyhood, and his feet were bare and calloused and feathers and leather strips were woven through his hair – oh Azura the sword in his hands was not a sword at all but a spear, the kind he once used to hunt kagouti in the marshes, where the flies were the size of a man’s thumb and drew blood when they bit you…

“I can explain!” he cried, but the crowd of people had begun to scream, and they were pointing toward the horizon, where he noticed now that the hulking shape of the Red Mountain rose up to blot out the sun, and the air had begun to fill with ash.

“Quick, Hortator, do something!” screamed the mer in the face mask. “The mountain!”

He cocked the spear, muttered a prayer to Azura to guide his hand, and let it fly. It hung for a moment in the sky, perfectly still, a bolt flying straight for the heart of Vvardenfell, and it pierced the volcano, which shattered in a blast of heat and molten rock and light – the palace was crumbling away beneath his bare feet and the people were trying to cling to chunks of marble as they fell… Nerevar spread out his arms and prepared to fall, but was instead borne up, stars reeling drunkenly past him, now the heavy scent of flowers, and a laughing voice that said, _You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you, Nerevar?_

If he could just open his eyes and keep them open it would end, it would be fine, but his eyelids were so heavy, and not even sheer desperation could pull him out of it – a hand grasped his shoulder – he gasped, lurched forward, reaching for a dagger he knew had to be there…

“Nerevar!”

Blinking, sitting up in twisted sheets, he could finally make out the face of Sotha Sil, with his brows drawn together in an anxious frown and one hand outstretched.

“Oh,” he said, sinking back against the bed frame with a sigh. His pulse was thundering in his ears. “What is it?”

“I thought it best to wake you… you sounded distressed. You cried out.”

It was still dark but, of course, they were in Rjakanzel, underground. Nerevar felt a wave of nausea. It was as if there was nothing to cling to, not even the comfort of telling the time of day through the window.

“We don’t have to be up for another hour or two. Shall I cast a calming spell?”

Nerevar shuddered; he hated magic that toyed with one’s senses and emotions.

“No… thank you, my friend. I should work on my speech…”

Biting back advice which, in that moment, was clearly unwanted, Sil left him. Instead of going over his speech, Nerevar lay flat on his back in the bed, staring at the moulded plaster of the ceiling. The nightmare had left him sweaty and drained. The day ahead stretched before him, an impenetrable tangle of threads: the Dwemer city like a maze; Dumac’s deep hooded eyes; dozens of grand officials waiting for him to give his speech; the too-tight collar of his new robe, with its embroidered constellation of House crests; Dumac in his shining gold crown… Nerevar drifted once again into sleep. This time, he did not dream.

Toward midday, the Chimer delegation left the palace for their walking tour of Rjakanzel. Both Dumac and his chief tonal architect and deputy, Kagrenac, had been looking forward to showing their guests the city and relaying its history, with which they were, as were most Dwemer, endlessly fascinated. The Dwemer had a justifiable reputation for being rather inward-looking and proud people: proud of their scientific achievements and their great feats of engineering; proud of their refined culture and exceptional taste; and proud of their confederation, which had been founded when the Chimer still lived in their grand Velothi strongholds.

Rjakanzel, the jewel of Dwemereth, a city of half a million souls, far beneath the tumult of a surface world many of them preferred to ignore, was not the capital of the Confederation — that honour lay with Ur, at the heart of Vvardenfell beneath the Red Mountain, which outsiders were not permitted to enter — but it was the oldest city, the first city. It had seen the ebbs and flows of the Dwemer civilisation in Resdayn, their failures and triumphs, the ancient temples repurposed as public fora, the statues of gods long forgotten reworked, broken down into their essential chunks of stone and used to pave grand boulevards. The centre of the city, the Senate District, was home to politicians, public servants, scholars, and nobles who lived in tenement houses overlooking spacious squares and parks. Elector’s Way, the main thoroughfare linking the senate complex to the east with the debate hall and palace to the high chancellery to the west, was lively at this time of day, with residents and workers making their way home for lunch by foot or automaton carriage.

Having spent much of the trip so far feeling anxious and agitated, her mind swarming with Nords, Dwemer, Great House schemes, and the affairs of her beloved Mournhold, Almalexia tried to relax and enjoy the sights of Rjakanzel. It was a rare privilege for an outsider to be invited into a Dwemer city — in fact, this was Almalexia’s first such visit — and she knew it would be a shame to waste the opportunity by being lost in her own head. Kagrenac had taken it upon herself to accompany her on the walk while Dumac occupied himself with Nerevar. She was an engaging guide and, Almalexia thought, just as intriguing as the city itself. At first, Almalexia had thought her overly serious, even dour, but she soon realised that this was mostly shyness, and that beneath her cool exterior was a charming intensity of character.

She was animated as she shared stories of the city’s history, from its origins as a settlement of chaurus silk-weavers to the revolution of the mid-Merethic Era, when its beleaguered citizens had beheaded their last hereditary monarch in the square at the centre of what was now the Senate District. The queen wondered for a moment if she should take offence at this fact, but the sly, almost playful look Kagrenac gave her as she told the story made Almalexia forgive her for it. One must be willing to bear the peculiarities of one’s allies with good grace, she reasoned, gazing out over the square with an indulgent smile. Much of the square was taken up by a great fountain in marble and brass, its central column bearing the faces of the ten original founders of Dwemereth in bas relief. As they watched, passing Dwemer cupped their hands under the streams of water and drank.

“It’s considered good luck,” said Kagrenac, anticipating her question. “People say that she who drinks from the fountain will soon return to Rjakanzel.” There was a long pause. Then, reaching out to let water gather in the palm of her hand, Kagrenac glanced at her with a serious look in her dark eyes. “Will you drink, Lady Almalexia?”

For one ridiculous moment, Almalexia thought that Kagrenac meant to offer her the water in her hand to drink, and looked startled, but then she laughed and began to remove her gloves.

“Well, why not? If we are all to be friends.” She held out her hands as if in offering, enjoying the coolness of the water on her skin. “What supplies the fountain?”

As Kagrenac began to explain the city’s innovative plumbing and sewer systems, Almalexia looked across the square to where Dumac and Nerevar had wondered off alone. They seemed to be speaking little but, in the way they held themselves, both oblivious to and acutely conscious of the world around them, Almalexia felt she could understand all. _It’s obvious to anyone who knows him that Nerevar’s completely infatuated with him_ , she thought. _Idiot_. Of all the dangers she had anticipated as they laid plans for the alliance, the war, and this trip to Rjakanzel, her hortator falling under the spell of the Dwemer king had not been one of them — but then, as Sil so helpfully reminded her, later, she didn’t know Dumac.

By the time they returned to the palace, tired after several hours of walking around the city, lunch was a relaxed affair. The alit from the hunt the previous day was served roasted with a selection of mushrooms and root vegetables, along with bowls of pickled greens grown under artificial lights in the chancellery greenhouse, and enough rounds of wine to lull them all into a satisfied, merry stupor.

The rest of the afternoon was similarly quiet, with the grand treaty signing to be held the next day. While Almalexia and several of the Great House kinsmen toured the palace conservatory with Kagrenac, Nerevar and Sotha Sil spent the time playing chess in the sitting room of their quarters — Nerevar was a cunning player and, to his great annoyance, Sil lost more games than he won — and going over Nerevar’s speech. After several hours of practice, he knew it by heart, and all that remained was to translate the two final lines into Dwemeris. This task by no means required Dumac’s help, for Sotha Sil spoke and wrote in Dwemeris fluently, but it was a fine excuse for giving the king and hortator a moment to themselves, away from the prying eyes and pointed ears of their advisors and diplomats. Whatever Dumac’s reasons for wanting to get Nerevar alone, he was sure it had to be more than a desire to deepen their acquaintance. It was right and proper for them to build some kind of relationship, for the sake of the alliance, but Nerevar could not convince himself, let alone anyone else, that friendly Chimer-Dwemer relations were all that was on his mind.

Ever since Dumac had taken his hand in the Field, in front of all the assembled dignitaries, he’d felt that they were rushing toward something inexorable. This feeling was by no means unwelcome, but it was also not comfortable. The previous night, before falling into fitful dreams, he’d lain awake for hours thinking over all the strict advice he’d received on decorum, his priorities as hortator, and the good of the Chimer people. He had agonised over Sil’s warning — _I’ve seen how persuasive he can be_ — and how he’d brushed it off with a laugh, delirious from an evening of sitting next to Dumac and basking in his reflected glow. Now, still struggling to shake off the disquiet of his nightmare, he felt that same unease which always seized him at court functions in Mournhold, as if everyone else were sharing a joke he was too coarse and too common to understand. He suspected that he’d missed something obvious, that Dumac played with him — or, worse, mocked him.

“By Veloth’s divine hammer,” he muttered, doing up the buttons of his shirt. “I fucking hate nobles.”

Leaning against the door frame, watching Nerevar with a fond yet anxious look in his eyes, Sil smiled.

“You’ll be fine. Remember what I said.”

That familiar chiding tone, so very like a stern older brother, made Nerevar roll his eyes.

“You say so many things…”

“Be _careful_ ,” Sil retorted, leaving Nerevar to finish dressing. He planned to spend the evening browsing the books in the sitting room — he sensed Dumac’s thoughtful hand in the selection, which ranged from treatises on history and politics to lyric poetry, in both Dwemeris and Aldmeris — and trying not to worry about Nerevar’s ability to keep a level head.

On the short walk from his quarters to Dumac’s wing of the palace, Nerevar decided to confront the king, to demand what he meant by his flirtatious demeanour, and then decided against it again, several times over. Consequently, by the time he arrived at Dumac’s door, where he was announced by an attendant in red and gold chancellery livery, he’d worked himself into a near-frenzy of confusion and defensive anger. He felt restless and prickly all over.

Yet, somewhat to his indignation, Nerevar’s anger faltered when the king greeted him at the door, resplendent in a robe of bright blue silk, with its brocaded front panel embroidered all over with pomegranates and leaping fish. His eyes, which had been lined with blue paint earlier that day, were now ringed with gold, and his hair was loose and curling about his shoulders. He smiled warmly as he invited Nerevar inside, ushering him to sit at the desk near the back wall, and called his attendant to bring refreshments.

The study was smaller than Nerevar might have imagined, clearly for personal use, rather than to conduct affairs of state, and was lined with bookshelves and curiosities: maps, both current and antique, the parchment yellowed with age; an ornamental duelling sword, secured in a bracket on the wall; a solid stoneware vase painted with a geometric flower motif; a small fountain depicting a Dwemer woman holding a scroll, with a bowl collecting fresh water at her feet; a glowing white stone the size of a melon, encased in glass; and, on the desk, a cat statuette carved from ebony, evidently used as a paperweight. Dumac’s desk was not untidy, but was littered with papers, sealing wax, bottles of ink in a variety of colours, and stacks of books. Two cones of incense smoked sweetly in one corner. 

Nerevar was beginning to feel overwhelmed with nerves. He was relieved when the attendant returned with a silver tray on which were arranged a teapot, cups, an elegant crystal decanter with matching glasses, and a plate of crescent-shaped honey biscuits. The liveried mer moved to pour the tea, but Dumac dismissed him with a wave of his hand; he was seized by a desire to serve Nerevar himself.

“Would you like tea, or marumak?” he asked, once they were alone. When Nerevar looked confused, he added: “A spirit distilled from entoloma. It’s a Dwemer specialty — I insist you try it.”

Nerevar acquiesced, never one to turn down an opportunity to try something new and hoping that a drink would calm his nerves. Dumac poured two glasses of clear, pungent liquor from the decanter. 

“It’s perhaps more bitter than you’re used to,” he said, placidly, as Nerevar downed his in a single gulp and almost choked.

“Sunavand,” said Nerevar. His throat burned as he coughed out the customary Dwemeri toast but Dumac, who drank his glass with far greater composure, looked pleased.

“Well, qazarak, perhaps you don’t need me at all! You already know more Dwemeris than most Chimer I’ve met, except Sotha Sil, of course.”

“And how many Chimer have you met?” Nerevar had recovered himself enough to give Dumac a sly smile.

“Not many, truthfully, but I hope I will have occasion to spend much more time in Chimer company.” His dark eyes glinted in the candlelight. Nerevar’s heart began to beat rapidly, but he could not look away. He was relieved when Dumac moved on. “How is Sotha Sil? I hope you’ve found your accommodations agreeable.”

“You’ve shown us the utmost hospitality. I believe Sotha Sil is making his way through the bookshelf as we speak…”

They fell into a cordial conversation which put Nerevar’s mind at ease, discussing Sotha Sil, whom Dumac had first met some years earlier, when he had visited Dwemereth on an academic exchange, and Nerevar’s lessons in Dwemeris. Dumac gave him a quill and a sheet of paper and helped him write out and translate what he wished to say in Dwemeris the next day, at the treaty signing ceremony, and it took no time at all, even after Dumac had made him read the lines aloud several times.

“I see you have a natural ear for languages,” he said, refilling their glasses.

Nerevar tried not to be flattered.

“I hope you don’t feel obliged to compliment me.”

“Quite the contrary, qazarak. I am obliged to do very little.” He frowned, but Dumac gave him no time to think over this remark. “Now, tell me — I must confess, I know very little of Chimeri literature, and I would like to know where to start. I have a modest collection of Tamrielic literature, you see.”

“You want recommendations?” Nerevar was surprised yet pleased, even more so when Dumac nodded and said, “Yes, just that.”

Some people found it strange that the hortator, who was after all just a common soldier, was also well-read and particularly fond of poetry, but they had only to understand that he had spent several years of his adolescence living in the Temple, and that Chimeri Temples were also schools and libraries. It was there that Nerevar, a lonely and angry child, had found the first lasting happiness of his life. Dumac listened with intent interest as he described what he considered to be the most important works of the Chimeri canon, from traditional Redoran war epics to High Velothi metred verse and the Ashlander hearth-songs that had only recently been put into writing. He felt his soul lift, as if it wanted to drift away with the fragrant incense smoke, and yet there was still that shadow of worry in his mind, for Dumac had not yet shown his hand. 

“Then, of course, there’s a new movement of Chimeri poetry drawing from the classical Ayleids,” he said, thinking of Vivec and his current literary projects. “Ayleid poetry is very popular among the Chimer; I’m not sure why.” 

“And have you had the pleasure to read much classical Ayleid poetry?” asked Dumac, intrigued.

“Not in Ayleidoon,” admitted the hortator. “But there are some fine Aldmeris translations, especially of Eysis’ ballads,” he added, referring to an Ayleid writer of irreverent, romantic verse which continued to delight the imagination centuries after his death. 

“Indeed, Lady Candarwen captures the spirit of the original very well.”

Dumac stood and moved to peruse the shelves, shaking back his long sleeves as he ran his fingers over the spines of the books.

“I have a copy here… Ah! This is the one.”

As Nerevar watched, he began to flick through the pages of a slim book, bound in leather.

“This is my favourite.” He was smiling, looking up from the page through long eyelashes. “A night of love — exquisite as a concert from Old Verondiil, played on exquisite instruments…”

Nerevar knew it well. Somewhat pained, he rose to Dumac’s provocation.

“A night of love with you: a grand battle… and two victories,” he recited in reply, then raised his glass as if in toast and drank it dry.

“Really, qazarak,” said Dumac, visibly delighted, “I begin to wonder if there’s anything you can’t do.”

It was all too much — the familiar, beautiful poem; Dumac’s relaxed demeanour; the intimacy of the evening — and something inside Nerevar snapped. He could no longer hold back the anxiety and indignation which had lurked all day in the back of his mind. Nerevar slammed his empty glass down on the table and stared hard at Dumac, who frowned, perplexed, and closed the book, with one finger still marking the page. He said nothing, clearly waiting for Nerevar to speak, and his patience only irritated Nerevar more.

“What game are you playing?”

Nerevar looked for all the world like a dog with its hackles raised, bristling with indignation, and yet Dumac could see his nerves in the way his hands, resting flat on the desk, twitched a little, as if he longed to take up the glass again, just to have something to hold onto. Returning to his chair, Dumac thought carefully before speaking. Truthfully, it was a relief to see Nerevar suspicious; it reassured him that the hortator was not a fool.

“Ah… if there is a game, then it’s perhaps not the one you think.”

“I think they’re one and the same to you,” retorted Nerevar.

“Why, you are uncharitable, qazarak!” Dumac had the urge to laugh but suspected that doing so would only cause Nerevar to bolt and the moment to slip between his fingers. “You wound me.”

“I doubt I could,” he said, with a distinctly mulish tilt of the chin. He was in a fierce mood, that was clear.

Dumac perceived that he would have to change course. He busied himself with refilling their glasses and, as he replaced the stopper on the decanter, wiping away a stray drop of liquid with his thumb. Nerevar took his glass with a terse nod of thanks and stood to pace about the study. As Dumac remained seated, calm and composed, following the hortator with his eyes, Nerevar struggled to pull himself together. He felt wretched, desperate, and wanted nothing more than to speak plainly, but there Dumac sat, more gorgeous in his shimmering silks and bright gold than any mortal he had ever seen, and the words stuck in his throat. Sotha Sil’s face — bespectacled and pinched with worry — arose in his mind, warning him not to be seduced, and yet Nerevar knew it was far too late for that, or he would never have come to this private meeting.

Nevertheless, even if he could justify his own behaviour to himself, it would be hollow without Dumac’s reassurance — and _that_ he was unsure the king could, or even would, give. A furtive glance at Dumac, who was inscrutable, sipping his vile entoloma vodka, left him seething. He realised that, unless he could see him ruffled, he would have to abandon the whole endeavour. Clenching his hand around his own glass, he paused to pretend to examine the fountain in the corner of the room and addressed Dumac with what he hoped was a nonchalant look over his shoulder.

“You know, I had an interesting conversation with Sotha Sil the other night,” he said.

“And what did Sotha Sil have to say?”

“He asked me to be careful.”

“Lord Sotha is eminently wise,” said the king, with a gregarious smile.

Nerevar’s shoulders tensed. He only wished that Dumac would drop his playful, flippant tone.

“And should I? Be careful?”

“One must always be careful, qazarak. Especially in our position.”

He saw immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. As Nerevar narrowed his fierce gold eyes, Dumac felt that he could glimpse what Nerevar’s opponents on the battlefield might see as they prepared to face him: the energy and razor-sharp focus of Nerevar the soldier, the captain. The niceties of his new role as diplomat-warlord could not contain that spirit.

“And what is my position, then, Dumac?” he wondered, voice low and almost dangerous. Dumac, with great fortitude, did not flinch at the casual use of his name. “You’re so eager to put me at ease. You’ve brought me here, to your private study, alone, to look over _poetry_ – why?”

At last, Dumac had the grace to speak plainly. “I believe I have made my interest clear.”

“Maybe so…” Nerevar prayed that no blush would darken his cheeks. He swallowed hard. “But what is behind that interest is another thing.”

“Is that so?”

Still holding his perfect composure, Dumac twisted one gold ring around his finger. Nerevar found he could no longer bear to look at his face and, more dead than alive, stalked to the other side of the room, behind the desk. Dumac did not turn, but merely tilted his head, so better to follow his voice and the sound of his footsteps.

“I have no desire to take part in a game of power. If that’s all this is to you, then it stops now. Do you understand?”

Behind him, Nerevar stepped even closer, well beyond what either Dumac himself or Dwemer court protocol would allow, ordinarily, and leaned down, so that his lips were almost touching his ear. Heart beginning to race, Dumac focused on breathing evenly, though the warmth of the hortator at his back made that increasingly difficult.

“So, if you spared me the humiliation of kneeling in the field just so you could have me on my knees later, for you alone, you may find yourself disappointed. At least for now.”

_I’m only mortal_ , Dumac thought, but managed to not say.

“Do you wish to make a show of strength, Nerevar?” he replied, instead. “To intimidate me? To…” — Nerevar’s warm exhalation of breath tickled the back of his neck — “… overpower me?”

Nerevar clenched his jaw. 

“Is that what you want?”

“Why don’t you try?” he said, hovering between fondness and insolence, promise and threat, and just like that he tilted back his head to let it rest against Nerevar’s sternum, with all the graceful vulnerability of a feinting prey animal.

The hortator blinked in astonishment. Glancing down at Dumac — at the tips of his eyelashes, blinking slowly in the candlelight, at the strong arch of his nose, and the length of his throat, a bronze plane half in shadow — he felt disarmed completely. He was struck by the urge to touch him, and so he did, reaching down to run his thumb along the line of the tendon there, below his jaw. For a moment, as Dumac exhaled slowly, Nerevar thought he’d get away with it, but then Dumac’s hand shot out with lightning speed to seize his wrist and hold it fast.

“Careful, Nerevar,” murmured the king.

The hairs on the back of Dumac’s neck, and on his arms, beneath the silk sleeves, stood on end, alive with the thrill of the moment, and as he held Nerevar’s wrist tight he felt his pulse begin to leap at the base of his thumb. Nerevar’s hand slackened, yielding in a way he had not expected from such a man, and he almost laughed. Behind him, breathing hard, Nerevar felt heat gathering in his extremities, flooding his cheeks, pooling in his stomach. He closed his eyes.

Then Dumac let go of his wrist and pushed out the chair, forcing Nerevar to step back as he rose with a flourish of blue silk. At the sight of the hard expression on Dumac’s face, dark eyes glinting with determination, he retreated further still, until his back hit the bookshelf against the wall of the study, and he pressed his hands to the spines of the books to brace himself. Even as he stared back, equally fierce, his heart pounded with excitement. Dumac leaned in close to his ear, just as Nerevar had done moments before, and his senses were flooded with the scent of his sandalwood perfume and the warmth of his body, just a hair’s breadth away.

“Don’t tell me — the great hortator likes a firm touch.”

He looked far too pleased at the thought of having figured him out.

“You never answered my question,” countered Nerevar. He was, Dumac had to admit, doing an admirable job of maintaining that proud demeanour while backed against a wall; well, it was probably not the first time he’d found himself in such a position. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” he said, quietly serious, resting one fine hand on Nerevar’s chest. He gathered the fabric of Nerevar’s shirt between thumb and forefinger, rubbing it gently as if examining the weave. “And, I assure you, this is not a game.”

Nerevar breathed out, relaxing a little at the concession, and yet he remained still, obliging, waiting for Dumac’s next move — _that_ was pleasing. 

“I find you compelling. Is that so hard to believe?”

“And the alliance?”

“Nerevar,” he said, kindly, as he began to slide one button from its buttonhole. “We _are_ the alliance.”

At that, Nerevar began to laugh, a genuine unguarded laugh that made his eyes crinkle with delight, and he was still laughing as Dumac ducked his head to kiss him.

Occasionally, on kissing someone for the first time, you two feel as though you must have known each other forever, have kissed each other a thousand times in a thousand different ways, and this feeling of recognition lends a sweet desperation to your passion, such that you lose all sense of time and place. So it was for Dumac and Nerevar. In fact, this no longer surprised either of them. 

How long they kissed like that, pressed up against each other, against the bookshelf, Nerevar couldn’t say, but, when Dumac withdrew, both were short of breath. Dumac’s hand, the one that had slid inside his shirt, had now dropped to undo the laces of his breeches. Nerevar groaned softly, so aroused he was shaking. He could hardly believe his eyes.

“Hold your hands behind your back, hortator,” ordered Dumac, eyes glittering. “If you move, I’ll stop.”

“What are you —”

But Dumac had seized the cushion from his desk chair and was kneeling at his feet, hair shifting over his shoulders as he pushed Nerevar’s breeches down to his calves. It was more than he could have imagined possible, to see Dumac like that, on his knees with his robe pooling about him and his jewelled earrings catching the light of the lamps and candles. He’d thought that perhaps a Dwemer king wouldn’t deign to do this for anyone — and had never been so delighted to be proven wrong.

Nerevar was desperate to sink his hands into that thick black hair, to brush it aside so he could watch Dumac’s face, but he didn’t dare move. Instead, he gripped his own wrist as tightly as he might grip the hilt of a sword, nails digging in. He could tell, by the sleek satisfaction in Dumac’s eyes when he glanced up, one hand scratching lightly across his inner thigh, that his impassioned compliance pleased him. Any lingering doubts he might have had about Dumac and his motives vanished under the intensity of that look, of his hunger, and the way he moaned, as if Nerevar’s pleasure pleased him too. At the final moment, when Nerevar almost lost his composure, and Dumac had to hold him still against the bookshelf with one hand braced on his hip, he didn’t pull away, but let Nerevar finish on his tongue. They both swallowed, Nerevar dazed and panting and Dumac as composed as ever, save the sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Let me touch you,” he said, almost pleading, and Dumac was smiling as he rose to his feet and kicked the cushion out of the way.

“Yes,” was all he said, kissing him again, and Nerevar returned his kisses with sweet ardour.

His hands trembled just a little as he untied the sash of Dumac’s robe, while Dumac leaned against him with one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, pressing hot kisses to his throat, his cheeks. The headiness of the situation seemed at last to have overcome the tight control the king had over himself and all he did. At the end he buried his face in Nerevar’s hair, which was so endearing that Nerevar felt stunned and, not knowing what else to do, kissed him gently on the temple.

For a moment he wished that Dumac would stay just as he was, resting in Nerevar’s arms, but he of course withdrew. His eyes were half-closed.

“What is it they call you?” he mused, pretending to search his mind for the answer. “Moon-and-star?”

“Yeah,” said Nerevar, still feeling dazed and slow. He raised his hand by way of explanation, showing Dumac Azura’s ring.

“It suits you well.”

As Nerevar puzzled over the meaning of this remark, and of the king’s enigmatic little half-smile, Dumac shocked him yet again by reaching out to touch the hair at the back of his neck. It was far softer than a soldier’s hair had any right to be.

“Like moonlight.”

When he realised what he’d said, Dumac blushed, pulling away abruptly to straighten his clothes. The glimpse of unguarded emotion was so brief that, later, as he lay awake in his bed in the palace, Nerevar wondered if Dumac had said it at all. Surely as soft an expression as that could not have crossed his face; it was impossible that he should have stroked Nerevar’s hair so gently, like a lover — the kind of lover who even while half-asleep in the dead of night puts their arms around you when they feel your body curl against theirs. He began to suspect that he’d imaged it, and yet the hair on his neck remembered the touch of Dumac’s fingertips, just as his mouth remembered the beguiling sweetness of his kisses.

Upon leaving the study, Nerevar wandered back to his quarters as if in a dream, without any memory of the route he’d taken or even of putting one foot in front of the other. He was saved from walking right into the door by the startled exclamation of the Chimeri guard on duty, on whose cloak he had just trodden, and he fled inside while mumbling his apologies. Dreading the inevitable barrage of questions from Sil, who would surely guess everything as soon as saw Nerevar’s face, he took his time unlacing his boots. But, when he entered the sitting room, he saw that Sil had not managed to keep his vigil. He was curled up in an armchair by the bookshelf, asleep, with his chin tucked to his chest and a book still clasped in his hand, reading glasses marking his page.

“Azura be praised,” he whispered, shaking his head with silent laughter. As quietly as possible, Nerevar crept over to him and eased the book from his hand. He left the book on the side table, glasses placed neatly on top, and blew out the sputtering candle. “Good night, my friend.” 

***

Sitting at his dressing table, with an attendant braiding his hair, Dumac fidgeted, feeling more like a restless child being groomed against his will than a monarch preparing for one of the crowning triumphs of his reign. He felt nervous, though he couldn’t imagine why. The Senate had passed a resolution to celebrate the visit of the Chimer and congratulate the high chancellor on his successful bridging of the cultural gulf between their peoples. The alliance was all but secured, with the treaty signing ceremony little more than a formality. As Nabulus, a wrinkled Dwemer who had been his chief clothier and hairdresser for over a decade, began to weave the gold beads into his hair, Dumac tried to focus himself by rehearsing his speech under his breath. But, to his great annoyance, he could not shift his thoughts from the hortator and their meeting the night before.

He had fallen asleep thinking over their conversation and had woken that morning to visions of Nerevar’s face, the proud curve of his brow and the way his gold eyes with their pale, almost white, eyelashes had grown wide when Dumac had first kissed him. The flush of excitement and pleasure he felt on thinking of him mingled with the fear that he’d exposed too much; perhaps, set in motion something he might not be able, or willing, to stop. His first instinct at the sign of his own vulnerability was to recoil.

Sighing, he closed his eyes. The firm, quick movement of Nabulus’ fingers in his hair, occasionally bordering on painful, had a grounding effect on him. It wasn’t often that he felt so keenly the loneliness of his position. There was no one he could take into his confidence when it came to matters of the heart — certainly not Kagrenac; he knew already what she would say, and he did not like it.

“Your grace, the earrings,” said Nabulus, his tone verging on desperation.

Dumac blinked and looked up at the mirror, realising that Nabulus had been trying for some time to get his attention. Having finished with the braids, the old mer now held up two different earrings for his appraisal. The chandelier-shaped ruby earrings were old favourites of the king but, that morning, it was the other pair that caught his eye. They were a recent gift from the Altmer ambassador and of fine Summerset craftsmanship, the gold tassels made up of tiny stars and interspersed with onyx and deep blue Auridon sapphires. Once again, Nerevar appeared in his mind’s eye.

“I’ll wear the stars,” he said, shaking his regal head as if to physically dispel his sense of discomfort. Nabulus, who had long trained himself to pay no mind to anything but his work, nodded and went on.

Later that morning, dozens of Dwemer senators, nobles, and other high-ranking officials joined the Chimer delegation in the grand Hall of the Confederation to watch king and hortator sign the treaty to seal the political and military alliance between their two peoples. The gleaming marble hall had been decorated richly for the occasion, with lanterns and banners bearing the crests of Dwemereth and the Chimer Great Houses hanging from the ceiling and brocaded carpets spread across the floor. Garlands of flowers, a rare sight in the underground Dwemer cities, bloomed above the dais where Dumac and Nerevar sat, side by side, with the treaty documents spread out on the table before them. As they waited for the Dwemeri orchestra on the mezzanine to finish their piece, Dumac glanced at Nerevar and was pleased to find him already looking back. He kept his face calm and serious, but there was a soft quality to his eyes that made Dumac’s heart flutter.

In the crowd, Almalexia and Sotha Sil stood close together, practised in the art of discreet whispering.

“It’s a bit much,” observed Sil, peering at the dais. Dumac wore not a crown but a tall brocaded headdress hung with tassels, which was so heavy he could barely move his head; Nerevar was draped with more silk than he had ever worn in his life. “It’s as grand as a wedding.”

“I’d prefer fewer Dwemer at my wedding,” replied the queen. She spoke in Dovazhul, the Nord language, which few Dwemer present would understand.

“You’re still conflicted?” Sil switched to Dovazhul with ease.

“Not conflicted — careful.”

On the dais, Nerevar had picked up his quill and was signing his name on the parchment, beside Dumac’s. He would soon step up to the podium to give his speech. With a small sigh, Sil recalled his warning to Nerevar at the Field of Good Hope, which seemed so long ago now, and the glow in the hortator’s eyes, languid and secretive, that morning over their pot of tea.

“Someone has to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almalexia speaking Dovazhul is the headcanon of Ayem (@boethiah on tumblr), the queen of writing and conceptualising Almalexia :) :)
> 
> Apologies to Anna Swir for taking such liberties with her beautiful poem.

**Author's Note:**

> In the original Polish: Drugi madrygał
> 
> Noc miłosna z tobą,  
> wielka bitwa barokowa  
> i dwa zwycięstwa.


End file.
